The Family Trade (10 page)

“Security?”

“Biometrics, I think it’s called,” he said. There was a
click
from the door and he opened it slowly. “Matthias? Ish hafe gefauft des’usher des Angbard.”

Miriam blinked—she didn’t recognize the language. It sounded a bit like German, but not enough to make anything out; and her high school German was rusty, anyway.

“Innen gekomm’, denn.”

The door opened and Roland caught her right arm, tugged her into the room after him, and let the door close. She pulled her arm back and rubbed the sore spot as she glanced around.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” she said. Thick draped curtains surrounded the window. The walls were panelled richly in dark wood: The main piece of furniture was a desk beside an inner office door. A broad-shouldered man in a black suit, white shirt, and red tie waited behind the desk. The only thing to distinguish the scene from a high-class legal practice was the submachine gun resting by his right hand.

“Spresh’she de hoh’sprashe?”

“No,” said Roland. “Use English, please.”

“Okay,” said the man with the gun. He looked at Miriam, and she had the disquieting sense that he was photographing her, storing her face in his memory. He had frizzy black hair, swept back from high temples, combined with a nose like a hatchet and a glare like a caged hawk. “I am Matthias. I am the Boss’s secretary, which is, his keeper of secrets. That is his office door. You go in there without permission over my dead body. This is not an, um, how would you say it?” He glanced at Roland.

“Metaphor,” Roland offered.

“Metaphor.” Matthias looked at her again. He wasn’t smiling. “The Boss is expecting you. You may enter now.”

Miriam looked sidelong at him as Roland marched over to the door and opened it, then waved her forward. Matthias kept his eyes on her—and one hand close to the gun. She found herself involuntarily giving him a wide berth, as she would a rattlesnake. Not that he looked particularly venomous—a polite, clean-shaven man in a pin-striped suit—but there was something about his manner… she’d seen it before, in a young DEA agent she had dated for a couple of months before learning better. Mike Fleming had been quietly, calmly, crazy, in a way that made her cut and run before she got dragged too far in with him. He’d been quite prepared to give his life for the cause he believed in—or to make any other sacrifice for that matter: He was utterly unable to see the walls of the box he’d locked himself in. The kind of guy who’d arrest a cripple with multiple sclerosis for smoking a joint to deaden the pain. She suppressed a shudder as she entered the inner office.

The inner office was as excessive as the suite they’d given her, the Mafia special with the locked door and the auction house’s ransom in antiques. The floor was tiled in hand-polished hardwood, partially covered by a carpet that was probably worth as much as her house. The walls were panelled in wood blackened with age. There were a couple of discreet oil paintings of big red-faced men in medieval-looking armour or classical robes posed before a castle, and a pair of swords rested on pegs in the wall above the desk. There was a huge walnut desk positioned beside the window bay and two chairs were drawn up before it, positioned so that the owner of the office would be all but invisible from the window.

Roland stopped before the desk, drew himself up to attention, and saluted. “My lord, I have the pleasure of presenting to you… Miriam Beckstein.”

The presence in the chair inclined his head in acknowledgment. “That is not her real name, but her presence is sufficient. You may be at ease.” Miriam squinted, trying to make out his features against the glare. He must have taken her expression for hostility, for he waved a hand: “Please be seated, the both of you. I have no argument with you, ah, Miriam, if that is the name you wish to be known by.”

Roland surprised her by pulling a chair out and offering it to her. She startled herself in turn by sitting down, albeit nervously, knees clenched together and back stiffly erect “Who
are
you people?” she whispered.

Her eyes were becoming accustomed to the light: She could see the man in the high-backed chair smile faintly. He was in late middle age, possibly as old as Morris Beckstein would have been, had he lived. His suit was sober—these people dressed like a company of undertakers—but so well cut that it had to be hand-tailored. His hair was graying, and his face was undistinguished, except for a long scar running up his left cheek.

“I might ask the same question,” he murmured. “Roland, be seated, I say!” His tone of voice said he was used to being obeyed. “I am the high Duke Angbard of house Lofstrom, third of that name, trustee of the crown of guilds, defender of the king’s honour, freeman of the city of Niejwein, head of security of the Clan Reunified, prince of merchant-princes, owner of this demesne, and holder of many more titles than that—but those are the principal ones.” His eyes were the colour of lead, a blue so pale she found them hard to see, even when they were focused directly on her. “Also, if I am not very much mistaken, I am your uncle.”

Miriam recoiled in shock.
“What?”
Another voice echoed her. She glanced sideways to see Roland staring at her in astonishment. His cool exterior began to crack.

“My father would never—” Roland began.

“Shut
up,
” said Angbard, cold steel in his voice. “I was not referring to your father, young man, but to your aunt once removed: Patricia.”

“Would you mind explaining just what you’re talking about?” Miriam demanded, anger finally getting the better of her. She leaned forward. “Your people have abducted me, ransacked my house, and kidnapped me, just because you think I’m some kind of long-lost relative?”

Angbard nodded thoughtfully. “No. We are
absolutely certain
you’re a long-lost relative.” He glanced at his nephew. “There is solid evidence.”

Roland leaned back in his chair, whistled tunelessly, all military pretence fled. He stared at her out of wide eyes, as if he was seeing a ghost.

“What have
you
got to whistle about?” she demanded.

“You asked for an explanation,” Angbard reminded her. “The arrival of an unknown world-walker is always grounds for concern. Since the war… suffice to say, your appearance would have been treated drastically in those days. When you stumbled across the old coast trail a week ago, and the patrol shot at you, they had no way of knowing who you were. That became evident only later—I believe you left a pair of pink house-shoes behind?—and triggered an extensive manhunt. However, you are clearly not connected to a traitorous faction, and closer research revealed some interesting facts about you. I believe you were adopted?”

“That’s right.” Miriam’s heart was fluttering in her ribs, shock and unpleasant realization merging. “Are you saying you’re my long-lost relatives?”

“Yes.” Angbard waited a moment, then slid open one of the drawers in his desk. “This is yours, I believe.”

Miriam reached out and picked up the locket. Tarnished with age, slightly battered—an island of familiarity. “Yes.”

“But not this.” Angbard palmed something else, then pushed it across the desk toward her.

“Oh my.” Miriam was lost for words. It was the identical twin to her locket, only brightly shining and lacking some scratches. She took it and sprang the catch—

“Ouch!” She glared at Roland, who had knocked it out of her hand. But he was bending down, and after a moment she realized that he was picking it up, very carefully, keeping the open halves facedown until it was upon the duke’s blotter.

“We will have to teach you how to handle these things safely,” Angbard said mildly. “In the meantime, my sister’s is yours to keep.”

“Your sister’s,” she echoed stupidly, wrapping her fingers around the locket.

“My sister went missing thirty-two years ago,” Angbard said with careful lack of emphasis. “Her caravan was attacked, her husband slain, and her guard massacred, but her body was never found. Nor was that of her six-week-old daughter. She was on her way to pay attendance to the court of the high king, taking her turn as the Clan’s hostage. The wilds around Chesapeake Bay, as it is called on your side, are not heavily populated in this world. We searched for months, but obviously to little effect.”

“You found the box of documents,” Miriam said. The effort of speaking was vast: She could hear her heart pounding in her ears.

“Yes. They provide impressive supporting evidence—circumstantial but significant. While you were unconscious, blood samples were taken for, ah, DNA profiling. The results will be back tomorrow, but I am in no doubt. You have the family face and the family talent—or did you think world-walking was commonplace?—and your age and the documentary evidence fits perfectly. You are the daughter Helge, born to my elder sister, Patricia Thorold Hjorth, by her husband the western magistrate-prince, Alfredo Wu, and word of your survival is going to set the fox among the Clan chickens with a vengeance when it emerges.” He smiled thinly. “Which is why I took the precaution of sending away the junior members of the distaff side, and almost all the servants, before bidding you welcome. It would not have done for the younger members of the Clan to find out about your existence before I looked to your defence. Some of them will be feeling quite anxious about the disruption of the braid succession, your highness.”

“
Highness?
What are you talking about?” Miriam could hear her voice rising, out of control, but she couldn’t get it under control. “What are you on? Look, I’m a business journalist covering the Masspike corridor, not some kind of feudal noble! I don’t know about
any
of this stuff!” She was on her feet in front of the desk. “What’s world-walking, and what does it have to do—”

“Your highness,” Angbard said firmly, “you
were
a business journalist, on the other side of the wall of worlds. But world-walking is how you came here. It is the defining talent of our Clan, of the families who constitute the Clan. It is in the blood, and you are one of
us,
whether you will it or no. Over here, you are the eldest heir to a countess and a magistrate-prince of the outer kingdom, both senior members of their families, and however much you might wish to walk away from that fact, it
will
follow you around. Even if you go back over there.”

He turned to Roland, ignoring her stunned silence. “Earl Roland, you will please escort your first cousin to her chambers. I charge you with her safety and protection until further notice. Your highness, we will dine in my chambers this evening, with one or two trustworthy guests, and I will have more words for you then. Roland will assign servants to see to your comfort and wardrobe. I expect him to deal with your questions. In the meantime, you are both dismissed.”

Miriam glared at him, speechless. “I have only your best interests at heart,” the duke said mildly. “Roland.”

“Sir.” Roland took her arm.

“Proceed.”

Roland turned and marched from the office, and Miriam hurried to keep up, angry and embarrassed and trying not to show it.
You bastard!
she thought. Out in the corridor: “You’re hurting me,” she hissed, trying not to trip. “Slow down.”

Roland slowed and—mercy of mercies—let go of her arm. He glanced behind, and an invisible tension left his shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“You’re sorry?” she replied, disbelievingly. “You nearly twisted my arm out of its socket!” She rubbed her elbow and winced.

“I
said
I’m sorry. Angbard isn’t used to being disobeyed. I’ve never seen
anyone
take such liberties with him and escape punishment!”

“Punishment—” she stopped. “You weren’t kidding about him being the head of secret police, were you?”

“He’s got many more titles than he told you about. He’s responsible for the security of the entire Clan. If you like, think of him as the head of the FBI here. There was a civil war before you or I were born. He’s probably ordered more hangings than you or I have had hot dinners.”

Miriam stumbled. “Ow, shit!” She leaned against the wall. “That’ll teach me to keep my eye on where I’m going.” She glanced at him. “So you’re telling me I wasn’t paying enough attention?”

“You’ll be all right,” Roland said slowly, “if you can adapt to it. I imagine it must be a great shock, coming into your inheritance so suddenly.”

“Is that so?” She looked him up and down carefully, unsure how to interpret the raised eyebrow—
Is he trying to tell me something or just having a joke at my expense?
—then a second thought struck her. “I think I’m missing something here,” she said, deliberately casually.

“Nothing around here is what it seems,” Roland said with a little shrug. His expression was guarded. “But if the duke is right, if you really
are
Patricia’s long-lost heir—”

Miriam recognized the expression in his eyes: It was belief.
He really
believes
I’m some kind of fairy-tale princess,
she realized with dawning horror.
What have I got myself into?

“You’ll have to tell me all about it. In my chambers.”

Cinderella 2.0

Roland led her back to her suite and followed her into the huge reception room at its heart. He wandered over to the windows and stood there with his hands clasped behind his back. Miriam kicked her heels off and sat down in the huge, enveloping leather sofa opposite the window.

“When did you discover the locket?” he asked.

She watched him curiously. “Less than a week ago.”

“And until then you’d grown up in ignorance of your family,” he said. “Amazing!” He turned around. His face was set in a faintly wistful expression.

“Are you going to just stand there?” she asked.

“It would be impertinent to sit down without an invitation,” he replied. “I know it’s the case on the other side, but here, the elders tend to stand on points of etiquette.”

“Well—” her eyes narrowed. “Sit down if you want to. You’re making me nervous. You look as if you’re afraid I’ll bite.”

“Um.” He sat down uneasily on the arm of the big chair opposite her. “Well, it’s irregular, to say the least, to be here. You being unwed, that is.”

“What’s that got to do with it?” she snapped. “I’m divorced. Is that another of the things you people are touchy about?”

“ ‘Divorced?’ “ He stared at her hand, as if looking for a ring. “I don’t know.” Suddenly he looked thoughtful. “Customs here are distinctly different from the other side. This is not a Christ-worshiping land.” Another thought struck him. “Are you, uh … ?”

“Does Miriam Beckstein sound Christian to you?”

“It’s sometimes hard to tell with people from the other side. Christ worship isn’t a religion here,” he said seriously. “But you are divorced. And a world-walker.” He leaned forward. “What that means is you are automatically a Clan shareholder of the first rank, eligible, unwed, and liable to displace a dozen minor distant relatives from their Clan shares, which they thought safe. Your children will displace theirs, too. Do you know, you are probably a great-aunt already?”

To Miriam this was insupportable. “I don’t want a huge bunch of feuding cousins and ancestors and children! I’m quite happy on my own.”

“It’s not as simple as that.” A momentary flash of irritation surfaced: “Our personal happiness has nothing to do with the Clan’s view of our position in life.
I
don’t like it either, but you’ve got to understand that there are people out there whose plans will be disrupted by the mere knowledge of your existence, and other people who will make plans for you, regardless of your wishes!”

“I—” she stopped. “Look, I don’t think we’ve got this straight. I may be related to your family by genetics, but I’m not one
of
you. I don’t know how the hell you think or what your etiquette is like and I don’t care about being the orphan of a countess. It doesn’t
mean
anything to me.” She sighed. “There’s been some huge mistake. The sooner we get it over with and I can go back to being a journalist, the better.”

“If you want it that way.” For almost a minute he brooded, staring at the floor in front of her. Miriam hooked one foot over the other and tried to relax enough to force her shoulders back into the sofa. “You might last six weeks,” he said finally.

“Huh?”

He frowned at a parquet tile. “You can ignore your relatives, but they can’t ignore you. To them you’re an unknown quantity. The Clan shareholders all have the ability to walk the worlds, to cross over and follow you. Over here they’re rich and powerful—but your current situation makes them insecure because you’re unpredictable. If you do what’s expected of you, you merely disrupt several inheritances worth a baron’s estate. If you try to leave, they will think you are trying to form a new schismatic family, maybe even lure away family splinters to set up your own Clan to rival ours. How do you think the rich and powerful deal with threats to their existence?” He looked grave. “I’d rather not measure you for a coffin so soon after discovering you. It’s not every day I find a new second cousin, especially one who’s as educated and intelligent as you seem to be. There’s a shortage of good conversation here, you know.”

“Oh.” Miriam felt deflated, frightened.
What happens to business life when there’s no limit to liability and the only people you can work with are your blood relatives?
Instinctively she changed the subject. “What did your uncle mean about tonight? And servants, I mean,
servants
?”

“Ah, that.” Roland slipped down into the seat at last, relaxing a little. “We are invited to dine with the head of one of the families in private. The most powerful family in the Clan, at that. It’s a formal affair. As for the servants, you’re entitled to half a dozen or so ladies-in-waiting, your own guard of honour, and various others. My uncle the duke sent the minor family members away, but in the meantime there are maids from below stairs who will see to you. Really I would have sent them earlier, when I brought you up here, but he stressed the urgent need for secrecy and I thought—” He paused. “You really did grow up over there, didn’t you? In the
middle
classes.”

She nodded, unsure just how to deal with his sudden attack of snobbery. Some of the time he seemed open and friendly, then she hit a blind spot and he was Sir Medieval Aristocrat writ large and charmless. “I don’t do upper class,” she said. “Well, business class, maybe.”

“Well, you aren’t in America any more. You’ll have get used to the way we do things here eventually.” He paused. “Did I say something wrong?”

* * *

He had, but she didn’t know how to explain. Which was why a couple of hours later she was sitting naked in the bathroom, talking to her dictaphone, trying to make sense of the insanity outside—without succumbing to hysteria—by treating it as a work assignment and reporting on it.

“Now I know how Alice felt in looking-glass land,” she muttered, holding her dictaphone close to her lips. “They’re mad. I don’t mean schizophrenic or psychotic or anything like that. They’re just not in the same universe as anyone else I know.”
The same universe
was a slip: She could feel the hysterical laughter bubbling up inside her. She bit her lower lip, painfully hard. “They’re
nuts.
And they insist I join in and play their game by their rules.”

There was some bumping and thumping going on in the main room of the suite. That would be the maidservants moving stuff around. Miriam paused the tape for a moment, considering her next words. “Dear Diary. Forty-eight hours ago I was hanging out in the forest, happy as a clam with my photographs of a peasant village that looked like something out of the middle ages. I was exploring, discovering something new, and it was great, I had this puzzle-box reality to crack open, a whole new story. Now I discover that I
own
that village, and a hundred more like it, and I literally have the power of life and death over its inhabitants. I can order soldiers to go in and kill every last one of them, on a whim. Once the Clans recognize me officially, at an annual session, that is. And assuming—as Roland says—nobody assassinates me. Princess Beckstein, signing off for
The Weatherman,
or maybe
Business 2.0
. Jesus, who’d have thought I’d end up starring in some kind of twisted remake of
Cinderella
? Or that it would turn out so weird?”

And I called Craig Venter and Larry Ellison robber barons in print,
she thought mordantly, keying the “pause” button again.

“Put that way it sounds funny, but it isn’t. First I thought it was the feds who broke in and grabbed me, and that’s pretty damn scary to begin with. FEMA, secret security courts with hearings held
in camera
. Then, it could have been the mob, if the mob looked like FBI agents. But this could actually be worse. These guys wear business suits, but it’s only skin-deep. They’re like sheikhs from one of the rich Gulf Emirates. They don’t dress up medieval, they
think
medieval and buy their clothes from Saks or Savile Row in England.”

A thought occurred to her.
I hope Paulette’s keeping the video camera safe. And her head down.
She had an ugly, frightened feeling that Duke Angbard had seen right through her. He scared her: She’d met his type before, and they played hardball—hard enough to make a Mafia don’s eyes water. She was half-terrified she’d wake up tomorrow and see Paulie’s head impaled on a pike outside her bedroom window.
If only Ma hadn’t given me the damned locket—

A tentative knock on the door. “Mistress? Are you ready to come out?”

“Ten minutes,” Miriam called. She clutched her recorder and shook her head. Four servants had shown up an hour ago, and she’d retreated into the bathroom. One of them, called something like Iona, had tried to follow her. Apparently countesses weren’t allowed to use a bathroom without servants in attendance. That was when Miriam had locked the door and braced the linen chest against it.

“Damn,” she muttered and took a deep breath. Then she surrendered to the inevitable.

They were waiting for her when she came out. Four women in severe black dresses and white aprons, their hair covered by blue scarves. They curtseyed before her as she looked around, confused. “I’m Meg, if it please you, your highness. We is to dress you,” the oldest of them said in a soft, vaguely Germanic accent: Middle-aged and motherly, she looked as if she would be more at home in an Amish farm kitchen than a castle.

“Uh, it’s only four o’clock,” Miriam pointed out.

Meg looked slightly shocked. “But you are to be received at seven!” She pointed out. “How’re we to dress you in time?”

“Well.” Miriam looked at the other three: All of them stood with downcast eyes.
I don’t like this,
she thought. “How about I take something from my wardrobe—yes, they kindly brought all my clothes along—and put it on?”

“M-ma’am,” the second oldest ventured: “I’ve seen your clothes. Begging your pardon, but them’s not court clothes. Them’s not suitable.”

‘Court clothes’? More crazy formal shit.
“What would you suggest, then?” Miriam asked exasperatedly.

“Old Ma’am Rosein can fit you up with something to measure,” said the old one, “should I but give her your sizes.” She held up a very modern-looking tape measure. “Your highness?”

“This had better be good,” Miriam said, raising her arms.
Why do I never get this kind of service at the Gap?
she wondered.

Three hours later Miriam was readied for dinner, and knew exactly why she never got this kind of service in any chain store—and why Angbard had so many servants. She was hungry, and if the bodice they’d squeezed her into allowed her to eat when she got there she might consider forgiving Angbard for his invitation.

The youngest maidservant was still fussing over her hair—and the feathers and string of pearls she had woven into it, while lamenting its shortness—when the door opened. It was, of course, Roland, accompanied now by a younger fellow, and Miriam began to get an inkling of what a formal dinner involved.

“Dear cousin!” Roland saluted her. Miriam carefully met his eyes and inclined her head as far as she could. “May I present you with your nephew twice removed: Vincenze?” The younger man bowed deeply, his red embroidered jacket tightening across broad shoulders. “You look splendid, my dear.”

“Do I?” Miriam shook her head. “I feel like an ornamental flower arrangement,” she said with some feeling.

“Charmed, ma’am,” said Vincenze with the beginning of a stutter.

“If you would like to accompany me?” Roland offered her his arm, and she took it with alacrity.

“Keep the speed down,” she hissed, glancing past him at his younger relative, who appeared to be too young to need to shave regularly.

“By all means, keep the speed down.” Roland nodded.

Miriam stepped forward experimentally. Her maidservants had taken over an hour to install her in this outfit:
I feel like I’ve fallen into a medieval costume drama,
she thought. Roland’s high linen collar and pantaloons didn’t look too comfortable, either, come to think of it. “What sort of occasion is this outfit customary for?” she asked.

“Oh, any formal event where one of our class might be seen,” Roland observed: “except that in public you would have a head covering and an escort. You would normally have much more jewellery, but your inheritance—” he essayed a shrug. “Is mostly in the treasury in Niejwein.” Miriam fingered the pearl choker around her neck uncomfortably.

“You wore, um, American clothing today,” she reminded him.

“Oh, but so is this, isn’t it? But of another period. It reminds us whence our wealth comes.”

“Right.” She nodded minutely.
Business suits are informal dress for medieval aristocrats?
And formal dress that was like something that belonged in a movie about the Renaissance.
Everything goes into the exterior,
she added to her mental file of notes on family manners.

Roland escorted her up the wide stairs, then at the tall doors at the top a pair of guards in dark suits and dark glasses announced them and ushered them in.

A long oak table awaited them in a surprisingly small dining room that opened off the duke’s reception room. Antique glass globes rising from brass stems in the wall cast a pale light over a table glistening with silver and crystal. A servant in black waited behind each chair. Duke Angbard was already waiting for them, in similarly archaic costume: Miriam recognized a sword hanging at his belt.
Do swords go with male formal dress here?
she wondered. “My dear niece,” he intoned, “you look marvellous! Welcome to my table.” He waved her to a seat at the right of the head, black wood with a high back and an amazingly intricate design carved into it.

‘The pleasure’s mine,” Miriam summoned up a dry smile, trying to strike the right note.
These goons can kill you as soon as look at you,
she reminded herself. Medieval squalor waited at the gate, and police cells down in the basement: Maybe this wasn’t so unusual outside the western world, but it was new to her. She picked up her skirts and sat down gingerly as a servant slid a chair in behind her. The delicacy of its carving said nothing about its comfort—the seat was flat and extremely hard.